“Yes, but James was too young to remember his father. And your father was a bounder. Everybody says so.”
Olivia tugged one of Sarah’s plaits. “It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.” Even if it is true. “The point is, Mother is happiest when wed, and her children fare better with a father than without. If you will just give this fellow a chance you may find him quite agreeable.”
Sarah slipped out of Olivia’s hold. “He probably wants someone younger than her anyway.”
“Perhaps. At any rate, this trip to Doncaster is our chance to observe him. Please say you’ll come.”
But Sarah only shook her head. “I’d rather stay here with James. You go on with Mother, Olivia, and I’ll be along with Mrs. McCaffery next week to collect you in Doncaster. Then we’ll have loads of time together on the ride up to Scotland.”
Olivia stared at her sister, so young at twelve, and yet in some ways so much older than her years. “Yes, we’ll have a long ride and a long talk, and I’ll bring you up to date on whatever I learn in Doncaster.” She took Sarah by the hand. “We shall spend such a lovely time at Byrde Manor, so please, Sarah, try not to fret. Mother loves you, you know, and she wants you to be happy.”
Sarah sighed and gave a lopsided grin. “I know. Just promise me you will not allow her to invite everyone she knows to join us. I’m so weary of being surrounded by people I don’t know. Besides, Byrde Manor is your house, not hers.”
“You needn’t worry on that score. I plan to limit the guest list to a dozen, including the four of us. The house isn’t that large.”
A commotion in the hall ended their conversation. “Olivia! Come along, child.” Augusta hurried down the hall, trailed by Mrs. McCaffery.
Sarah gave her mother a perfunctory kiss, but Augusta cocked a brow at her youngest child’s bland expression. “Don’t you dare get into any mischief while I’m gone, Sarah. I’ve given Mrs. McCaffery strict instructions. No riding without a groom in attendance. No fishing with the stable lads or gallivanting with the servants’ children. You’re getting too old for that. And lessons every day. Every day. Do you hear me? When we settle in at Byrde Manor I expect to be impressed by your skill on the pianoforte. Oh, that reminds me, Olivia,” she said as they descended the front steps of the towering limestone house, and the coachman assisted her into the barouche. “As soon as you arrive at Byrde Manor, be sure to have the pianoforte in the second parlor tuned.”
With a final hug Olivia bid her sister good-bye. Then they were off, with Augusta chattering about who would be attending the horse races, while Olivia daydreamed of a long quiet autumn in Scotland.
It was a two-day journey and they arrived at the Cummingses’ sprawling residence a scant mile outside of Doncaster just as the sun settled over the allée of lime trees. A three-story red brick structure, the Cummings family seat had begun life as a fortified house. But in the ensuing centuries two wings and a central tower had been added, so that it now appeared an ungainly sprawl, vast, to be sure, but without a smidgen of grace.
Five days, Olivia told herself as the housekeeper ushered them upstairs to the adjoining chambers she and her mother would occupy. She had but five days to endure. Then it was on to Byrde Manor and the exhilaration of the Scottish countryside. She could hardly wait.
The casual summer supper had already been served to the other guests, so Olivia and her mother were served a tray in their rooms while a maid unpacked for them. Olivia would have preferred to turn in early with Emma, the new novel she’d brought with her, for she’d much enjoyed the author’s previous books. But her mother was not of a mind to miss any opportunity. According to the maid, Lord Holdsworth was already in residence, along with several other of the Cummingses’ guests.
“You never know whom you may meet,” Augusta told Olivia as she donned a pair of gold earbobs with aqua stones that perfectly matched her eyes. “A horsewoman such as yourself should be quite at home here.” She dabbed oil of roses behind her ears. “You’ve had more than your share of marriage offers. By rights you should be wed with one child in your arms and another on the way.”
“Since when do you long to become a grandmother?”
Augusta ignored that. “Let us go down, shall we? The butler said they would be gathered in the rear drawing room by now.”
The first thing Olivia noticed when they entered the Cummingses’ drawing room was that there were no other female guests. Penny Cummings made the introductions, fluttering her hands and her eyelashes in the affected manner she sometimes displayed. Mr. Cummings was half asleep in his chair, but he managed a creditable greeting. The other three gentlemen rose at the entrance of two attractive women to their party. Mr. Clive Garret was up from Devon for the races and the Honorable Mr. Harry Harrington had come up from Bury St. Edmonds in Suffolk, here to replenish his own stables.
As for Lord Holdsworth, he was as charming as ever. But it was plain to Olivia that he was presently more interested in horses than he was in marriage. After greeting Augusta with no more intimacy than he greeted Olivia, he turned back to his host.
“Are you familiar with the bloodlines of the horses Hawke is planning to run?”
Mr. Cummings held up his glass for a servant to refill. “I only know the one. A tall Scottish animal, I’m told. Sired by that big black stallion of his, out of the same mare as begot Chieftain. Remember Chieftain? Now there was a horse. ’Bout five years ago. Took Ascot, as I recall.”
“I hear he’s also got a filly that can run,” Mr. Harrington put in.
“So when is Hawke to arrive?” Holdsworth asked. “I’m eager to meet him and see his stock.”
“Should’ve been here by now,” Mr. Cummings replied. “Don’t know what could be holding him up.”
“Whom are they speaking of?” Augusta asked Penny.
“Neville Hawke. He’s the last of our party.”
“Hawke. That name sounds familiar,” Augusta said.
Penny’s hands fluttered again. “Perhaps you’ve heard of his exploits. He’s a war hero, they say. Now he breeds racing stock—with some success, it would seem. I’ve yet to meet him myself, but the men all speak highly of him.” She turned to her husband. “Mr. Cummings, is he bringing his wife?”
He gave a shrug. “Don’t know as he has one.”
Penny slanted a look at Olivia and leaned nearer. “Did you hear that?” she murmured. “Perhaps this will prove a worthwhile visit for both you and your mother.”
Olivia only gave her a noncommittal smile.
Fortunately their party did not go on too late. The next morning would be an early one for the gentlemen as most of the racing animals had arrived in Doncaster, and they all wished to observe the training runs. Much money would be bet on the main race, as well as on the several lesser races and side matches that always popped up. Everyone expected their wagers to come out to the good, and so they all meant to watch and listen and augment their hunches with the best tips to be had.
So it was early to bed. Yet weary as her body was from their journey, Olivia’s mind was not quite ready for sleep. She’d dozed off and on during their journey, and now her mind spun. But it was not the races and the society of Doncaster that had her in such a state, though she adored horses and prided herself on per firm seat in the saddle. It was thoughts of Byrde Manor. Riding a prescribed track on a very fast horse was all well and good. But a long ramble on a spirited animal through the stunning Cheviot Hills was much more to her liking.
When finally she fell asleep, it was to dream of crisp morning air and exhilarating countryside, of hawthorns and towering sycamores, and the haunting cries of terns and red kites and cormorants.
But sleep did not last long. Olivia awoke before dawn to the muted sound of horses’ hooves and masculine voices. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Even with all the racing excitement, she wouldn’t have expected the men to be leaving quite this early.
Rising, she peered down from her window into the rear courtyard, but it was empt
y. Restless, she stared around her, then listened at the door between her room and her mother’s. In the heavily curtained bed her mother slept on, her breathing slow and regular. Augusta believed in her beauty sleep, and it certainly seemed to work. She should try to do the same, Olivia told herself. But she knew she would not be able to doze off again.
Somewhere in the house a clock tolled the hour. Five o’clock. She stretched her arms high, then sighed. She was up, so she might as well dress herself. Perhaps she would take a turn in the little park she’d spied on the east side of the house. She hadn’t been up before dawn since they’d gone down to London. Awaiting the sunrise would be a pleasant diversion.
She dressed in the dark in a simple muslin gown, pale green with cream-colored ruching at the neckline. A quick brush through her hair and hurried ablutions at the washstand completed her toilette. Then she slipped on her walking shoes and a light shawl, and at the last moment also snatched up her journal. Perhaps she’d enter her observations about Lord Holdsworth and the other two gentlemen she’d met last night.
Locating the stairs was easy, locating a door to the outdoors far less so. The sprawling house was even more confusing from within than from without. When she spied a light through a door standing partially ajar, she headed straight for it. Someone was up and about, probably a servant. Perhaps they would direct her.
The door, painted pretentiously enough in faux marble, opened on silent hinges to reveal a spacious library, and Olivia’s eyes widened in delight. On a huge center table a host of books sprawled, mostly volumes on horses and racing, she saw. An empty tumbler sat beside a brace of candles that cast an amber glow across walls lined to the ceiling with leather-bound tomes. The window drapery was thrown open to the darkness beyond, but the room was empty. It must be as she’d supposed. The men had left for Doncaster after reviewing their research on the racehorses.
She moved farther into the room, forgetting about her walk. She’d not expected to discover such a large library here. In truth, she’d half-expected Penny Cummings to be illiterate. That was unkind, she scolded herself. And uncalled for.
She scanned the titles, trailing her fingers along the shelves. A Journey to the Islands of Scotland, by Samuel Johnson. Account of Corsica, by James Boswell. Voltaire’s Treatise on Religious Tolerance. All serious, practical tomes. A High Street bookseller would be impressed with the choices.
“But no poetry,” she mused aloud. She set her journal on a side table. “Hmm. Debrett’s Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland. No drama or plays either.”
“Is there no drama among the peerage?”
Olivia whirled around at those startling words. From the sheltering embrace of a deep upholstered chair turned toward the window, a man leaned over the arm, staring at her. “It seems,” he continued, “that the peerage is all about drama. Drama and little else.”
For a moment Olivia remained too shocked to speak, for she’d believed herself to be alone. Nor did she recognize the man from the guests she’d previously met. His face was shadowed by the night as well as by the dark tint of his unshaven cheeks and jaw, as if he’d been sleeping in that chair before the window.
She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. Before she could find her voice, however, his eyes ran slowly over her, head to toe and everywhere in-between. It was out-and-out scrutiny, a bold perusal the like she’d never before suffered, and it unsettled her to the core. Then he spoke in a voice that was dark and low, and vibrating with warmth.
“If there was no poetry in this library before, there most certainly is now.”
Chapter 3
Neville could hardly believe his eyes, nor his immense good fortune. If this was a dream, it was a damn sight better than the visions that usually beset him. She was an angel, shining in the lamplight, with the most sumptuous auburn hair spilling around her shoulders. Her eyes glittered wide and amber-green; her lashes swept over them, a dark brown velvet. Her skin was pale and lustrous, and would be soft to the touch. Dressed in a simply adorned gown of flowing muslin, she clutched a flimsy shawl to her chest as she stared back at him.
Neville swallowed hard. She was the picture of grace and beauty, yet with a hint of wildness about her, like a startled doe, lovely yet tensed to bolt. But he did not want her to bolt. He wanted her to stay if only so he could continue staring at her.
He ran his eyes over her, admiring everything he saw and wanting to see more. The full breasts beneath the snug bodice, the long legs beneath the fluid gown. Was she a servant? Though she did not wear a uniform, she must be one of the staff, for who else would be up before dawn? A slow smile lifted one side of his mouth. Had he known Cummings kept such a lovely household staff, he would have arranged to arrive sooner in the evening and not wasted this long, torturous night in solitude.
He had planned deliberately to arrive late, for he’d been unready for the company of society folk. He needed to do business with Cummings and his friends, and so he’d had to come. But he’d timed his arrival for past midnight. By the time he’d settled the horses and dismissed his grooms, everyone else had been asleep, leaving him only a few hours to wait out the night. The library had suited his purpose, providing him with east-facing windows. And now it had provided him with this pretty young maid or governess or whoever she was.
He gave her an appreciative smile. “No ode to beauty has yet been written which does credit to the beauty I see before me now,” he murmured, meaning every word. When she blushed in response his grin increased. He must be more drunk than he thought, he told himself, though he’d not delved very deeply into the bottle of brandy he’d found on a tray on a bow-fronted commode. He must be drunk or else damned lucky that such a delectable little baggage was up and about so early in the day.
“Tell me, what is your name?” he asked as he rose to his feet. He did not sway, and his head hardly spun—a good sign. For if he was not drunk enough to be having visions, then she must be real. And now that he thought of it, there could be but one reason a woman who looked like her would be tiptoeing about in a great hall like this at such an unlikely hour. It was too early even for servants to begin their daily tasks. But nighttime tasks …
He eyed her flushed cheeks and rosebud lips, and drew the only conclusion he could. Was it Cummings’s bed she’d graced tonight, he wondered, or perhaps one of his other guests’?
His eyes ran over her again, and despite the effects of the brandy he felt the unfamiliar rise of desire. He hadn’t been with a woman in weeks. He hadn’t truly wanted one in months. But for some reason he wanted this one. There was a good hour yet until dawn. He would as happily spend it in bed with an eager young woman as with a bottle of whisky.
“Come, my little midnight muse. ’Tis plain it is not house cleaning you’ve been up to this night. So linger a while with me and inspire the poet in my soul,” he coaxed, giving her a beckoning smile. “God knows I am in dire need of inspiration.”
At his smile she frowned and clutched her white fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I fear you mistake me for someone else.”
He shook his head. “That’s not likely. Tell me,” he repeated. “What is your name?”
Her eyes narrowed and he felt the full weight of her stare as she made a thorough canvass of his person. He straightened to his full height. Did she like what she saw? The front of his waistcoat was unfastened, and he was dirty with road dust and in sore need of a shave. But perhaps she would not mind. Some women liked their men rough around the edges.
“Your nighttime secrets are safe with me,” he reassured her. “So come now. You need not be tongue-tied. A comely maid such as you has surely received her share of compliments.”
“A few,” she ventured in a voice as warm as a purr, despite her wariness. No giggles or sharp dialect from this one. Better and better.
He approached her slowly, holding her gaze with his own. “Eyes the color of autumn,” he murmured. “Green and gold.”
“The correct term is ‘haze
l.’”
He smiled at her curt reply, and felt the building of desire. “But hazel is not nearly poetic enough to describe them. And I believe you require poetry.” He’d spout Shakespeare or Marlowe or Blake. Whoever it took to lure her to his bed.
As if she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she averted those striking eyes, sheltering them beneath the sweep of her velvet lashes. “I believe I had better depart now.”
But Neville did not want her to go. When she turned he followed, and when she reached for the door, he held it closed with one hand flat against the panel.
She jerked around to face him, anger flashing in her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You haven’t told me your name,” he answered, leaning his weight against the door and deliberately blocking her departure.
“Nor am I likely to,” she retorted, her husky voice vibrating with temper.
“Your eyes go green when you are riled,” he said, smiling down into their mesmerizing depths. Then to his own surprise, he caught her by the chin and leaned forward until their faces were but inches apart. “Who are you, my lovely midnight maiden? And what must I do to coax you to share a glass of brandy with me?”
“A glass of brandy? ’Tis plain you’ve had too many glasses already.” She batted his hand away, then ducked under his arm and backed toward the center of the room, past the chair where he’d been sitting. “Let me leave, else I shall scream down the house,” she vowed.
He was behaving badly, Neville knew. Accosting his host’s domestic staff was not his normal style. Then again, he’d not been a guest in anyone’s home in so many years, who was to say what was normal for him anymore? Still, the fact that his numb emotions had reacted so immediately to this young woman was reason enough for him to continue his pursuit of her.
“There’s no cause to do that, for I mean you no harm. Just your name,” he said as she came up against the wall. “But I am remiss. Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”
The Matchmaker Page 3
